THE BEAUTIFUL OF EARTH.

They seemed, however, to struggle to make this costume as unbecoming as possible, wearing the coats loose, the collars immense, the breasts small, and such pantaloons andshocking badhats as were never seen before or since. The costume of a dandy of 1798 consisted of a blue coat, a white waistcoat, open in the breast, a finely worked shirt-bosom, fastened with a diamond pin, a huge muslin cravat, Nankin pantaloons, with black stripes down the seams, and thrust into the boots. (In society the boot was replaced by a small and pointed shoe.) The everlasting bludgeon was as indispensable in the street as the boots and the hat. To young Thelusson, when thus dressed and armed, Madame de Stael, who wore an orientaltoilette, said, “Citizen, you bear the sceptre of ridicule.” “Madame,” replied he, “you are certainly competent to award it to whom you please.” Never were there so many strange costumes seen in any one city as in Paris at that time, whenperuques, powder, hairà la Titus, cocked and round hats all were mingled together. Costume was indeed republican if the government was despotic.

[Conclusion in our next.

All Nature’s beauteous forms, of light, of earth, or air, or sky,Compare not with the flexile frame, the lustrous, speaking eye;The opening flower, the rainbow tint, the blue and star-lit dome,Are things of naught, in contrast with the angels of our home:All gentle acts, all noble thoughts, of Heaven-directed birth,Are centered in the fair and good, the beautiful of earth.

All Nature’s beauteous forms, of light, of earth, or air, or sky,

Compare not with the flexile frame, the lustrous, speaking eye;

The opening flower, the rainbow tint, the blue and star-lit dome,

Are things of naught, in contrast with the angels of our home:

All gentle acts, all noble thoughts, of Heaven-directed birth,

Are centered in the fair and good, the beautiful of earth.

WILD-BIRDS OF AMERICA.

———

BY PROFESSOR FROST.

———

CAROLINA OR MOCKING WREN.

This interesting bird is strictly southern in its habits, being rarely found north of Maryland and Delaware, while it abounds during the whole year in the warmer states. Occasionally it strays to the vicinity of Philadelphia and even of New York; but this is so seldom that the indefatigable Wilson never found its nest north of the Maryland line. Like the House-Wren it is a sprightly, industrious and familiar bird, and a general favorite in the neighborhood where it abounds. Other qualities render its nature so ambiguous that some have hesitated to place it among the Wrens. One of the most remarkable of these is its power of imitating the songs of other birds. With much sweetness and accuracy it blends its own notes with the simple twittering of the Ground-Robin, the harsh noise of the Woodpecker, the trilling of the Blackbird and Warbler, and the whistling of the Cardinal. These are its favorite imitations; but its powers of mimicry embrace the songs of almost all our forest-birds. But notwithstanding this capriciousness in sounds, the Carolina Wren is said to have a favorite theme, repeated more regularly than any other. Nuttall thus pleasantly describes it. “This was the first sound that I heard from him, delivered with great spirit, though in the dreary month of January. This sweet and melodious ditty,tsee-toot,tsee-toot,tsee-toot, and sometimestsee-toot,tsee toot-seet, was usually uttered in a somewhat plaintive or tender strain, varied at each repetition with the most delightful and delicate tones, of which no conception can be formed without experience. That this song has a sentimental air may be conceived from its interpretation by the youths of the country, who pretend to hear it say,sweet-heart,sweet-heart,sweet! nor is the illusion more than the natural truth, for, usually, this affectionate ditty is answered by its mate, sometimes in the same note, at others in a different call. In most cases, it will be remarked, that the phrases of our songster are uttered in 3s; by this means it will be generally practicable to distinguish its performance from that of other birds, and particularly from the Cardinal Grosbeak, whose expression it often closely imitates, both in power and delivery. I shall never, I believe, forget the soothing satisfaction and amusement I derived from this little constant and unwearied minstrel, my sole vocal companion through many weary miles of a vast, desolate, and otherwise cheerless wilderness.”

The food of the Carolina Wren consists of the insects found in old timber, and along the banks of streams, places which it delights to frequent. It is found among the thick cypress swamps of the south even in the middle of winter. It can see well in the dark, sometimes searching food in caves, where to most other day birds objects would be undistinguishable. Its building places are a barn, or stable, some old decayed tree, or even a post-fence. The female lays from five to eight eggs, of a dusky white, mottled with brown. Two broods are raised in a season, and sometimes even three. The adult bird is five and a quarter inches long, of a chestnut brown, beautifully mottled with black and other colors. The female differs little in color from the male.

THE CARDINAL BIRD.

This bird is known under the names of Virginia Red Bird, Virginia Nightingale and Crested Red Bird. It is one of the most beautiful of American songsters, and in power and sweetness of tone it has been compared with the Nightingale. The species belongs mostly to the United States and Mexico, but has been found in considerable numbers in the West Indies, Central America and Colombia. Although delighting in a southern clime, it is sometimes observed in Pennsylvania, and even New England.

Being migratory, it often flies in large flocks, presenting a splendid appearance, especially when moving in relief over a clear sky, and in the rays of the sun. At other times several of these birds are found associated with Sparrows, Snow-Birds and other half domestic species. When alone his favorite haunts are the corn-field, small clumps of trees, and the borders of shaded rivulets. Corn is their favorite food, in addition to which they eat seeds of fruit, grain and insects. They are easily domesticated, even when taken quite old, and require very little trouble in order to thrive well. Loss of color, however, has often been the result of long confinement, although with care this might perhaps be obviated. They are lively in the cage, and maintain their powers of song to the last. Numbers of them are carried to France and England, where they are highly esteemed. Their time of song lasts from March to September.

The Cardinal Bird’s song consists of a favorite stanza often repeated, with boldness, variety of tone and richness. Its whistling somewhat resembles that of the human voice, though its energy is much greater. In his native grove, his voice rises above almost every other songster except the Mocking-Bird. The powers of the female are almost equal to those of the male, of whom she is a most constant and affectionate partner.

Latham admits that the notes of the Cardinal “are almost equal to those of the Nightingale,” the sweetest of the feathered minstrels of Europe. But, says Nuttall, “the style of their performance is wholly different. The bold martial strains of the Red Bird, though relieved by tender and exquisite touches, possessnot the enchanting pathos, the elevated and varied expression of the far-famed Philomel, nor yet those contrasted tones, which, in the solemn stillness of the growing night, fall at times into a soothing whisper, or slowly rise and quicken into a loud and cheering warble.”

The Cardinal Bird measures eight inches in length, and eleven from the tip of one wing to that of the other. The whole upper parts are of a dull dusky-red, except the sides of the neck, head and lower parts, which are of a clear vermilion. The chin, front and lores black. The head is ornamented with a high pointed crest. The bill is coral red, and the legs and feet are pale ash color. The female is somewhat less than the male, and a little different in color. Both sexes are noted for affection to their young, and to each other; but so jealous are the males that they have often been known to destroy those of their own sex.

JENNY LIND.

———

BY MISS M. SAWIN.

———

A world’s sweet enchantress, unbounded in fame,O how shall I sing of so peerless a name—Thy tones, from the wilds of a picturesque land,The billows of ocean have borne to our strand;Though I ne’er have beheld thee, yet bound in thy spell,My bosom thine echoes still onward would swell—Would enshrine in my song the sweet soul of thy strains,Till fresh incense should rise from our mountains and plains.Though long on the altar thou’st kindled the fire,Oh how shall it burn on the strings of the lyre!’Tis the music of Nature sublimed in thy laysWhich has won thee thy guerdon of lore and of praise;’Tis hence that the depths of the spirit it thrills,That responses start forth from mountains and hills,That no barriers the flight of thine echoes can bind,Which are borne o’er the earth on the wings of the wind.There is glowing within us, all restless, a lyre,Which would swell like an angel’s its anthems of fire,But the shroud of mortality fetters its strings—Yet thou while on earth hast unfolded thy wings,Canst dwell with the fairies in chalice of flowers,And glide with the wood nymphs in deep sylvan bowers;Canst float with the moonbeams in dew-silvered trees,And rise on the wings of the morn’s fragrant breeze,While sunbeams are waking the rapturous laysOf dew-drops and birds, and yet all ’neath their blaze;Canst hover o’er ocean when storm it enthrones,And bear from the foam-crested surges their tones;When dark are the skies and the thunder-clouds lower,With the eagle’s bold flight to the mountain’s crest soar;The streams of the forest to their fountains canst wind,And caverns resounding in solitude find;Enshrined in thy spirit their voices canst keep,Sublimed by thine alchemy subtile and deep,At thy will from thy spirit their harmonies sweep,And I ween thou hast soared to the portals of Heaven,Or some angel a tone to thy praises has given.O, Jenny, the brightest cynosure below!The fount in thy bosom must here cease to flow;Like the sear leaves of autumn which shroud the old years,Thy harp-strings must perish ’mid wailings and tears;Thy lovers who bend at thy purity’s shrine,Enchained by the spells of thy carols divine,When no temple’s proud arches resound with thy strain,In the wilds of thy forests shall seek thee in vain;But when from thy tomb they despairing return,In lyres immortal thine echoes shall burn.Alas! that thy music should ever here die,Should leave the sad earth and ascend to the sky;Yet when thou art fled to the seraphim throngWill fancy yet list to thy glorified song,Will dream that no harp on the heavenly plainsHas music so sweet as are there thy high strains.Though we never may list while on earth to thy lays,For the boon of thy being high Heaven we’ll praise;Where thy strains are ascending must Paradise be—Humanity’s scale is exalted in thee.There is a tone in my bosom as yet unexpressed,And fain would I bid it to ever there rest,But the woes of the earth for its utterance plead,Then may it go forth as a merciful deed:—O, Jenny, while shining so brilliant on high,Like the Lyrian star on the vault of the sky,While the peers of the realms bow in homage to thee,Dost never thy race in their miseries see?To the charm of thy music we ever would yield,By thee would be borne to Elysium’s field,And forgetful that wrong or that wo were on earth,Forever would list to thine angel-like mirth.But the heart fraught with sympathies true, must embraceThe lowest as well as the stars of our race—Round the poor and the wretched in bitterness twine—On devotion’s wings rise to where pure seraphs shine;—In our pathway to Heaven we encounter the thorn,Each brother’s woes feel and the proud tyrant’s scorn—The way that our holy Redeemer has trodBut leads us through tears to the throne of our God.I know that thine own gushing spirit is freeAs the winds that o’ersweep the high mountains and sea;Thy genius has burst from all species of chains,And freedom unbounded swells forth in thy strains;But while ever exulting on fetterless wing,Wouldst not the blest boon to each lorn spirit bring?Thy music, which thrills to the depths of the heart,Might bid us to deeds of true chivalry start;Might bid the kind fountain in proud bosoms flow,To heal the crushed hearts that are writhing in wo.Both Knowledge and Virtue like angels descend,The sad thralls of Sin and of Darkness to rend,Perchance that the tyrant may yield to thy charms,And avert the dread doom of the Future’s alarms,Till unwilling vassals no more bend the knee,But rise at his bidding and ever be free.And the gold thou hast won by the charm of thy name,To its splendor might add the philanthropist’s fame,Till many an oasis from deserts shall spring,When the arches of Heaven with thy praises shall ring.

A world’s sweet enchantress, unbounded in fame,

O how shall I sing of so peerless a name—

Thy tones, from the wilds of a picturesque land,

The billows of ocean have borne to our strand;

Though I ne’er have beheld thee, yet bound in thy spell,

My bosom thine echoes still onward would swell—

Would enshrine in my song the sweet soul of thy strains,

Till fresh incense should rise from our mountains and plains.

Though long on the altar thou’st kindled the fire,

Oh how shall it burn on the strings of the lyre!

’Tis the music of Nature sublimed in thy lays

Which has won thee thy guerdon of lore and of praise;

’Tis hence that the depths of the spirit it thrills,

That responses start forth from mountains and hills,

That no barriers the flight of thine echoes can bind,

Which are borne o’er the earth on the wings of the wind.

There is glowing within us, all restless, a lyre,

Which would swell like an angel’s its anthems of fire,

But the shroud of mortality fetters its strings—

Yet thou while on earth hast unfolded thy wings,

Canst dwell with the fairies in chalice of flowers,

And glide with the wood nymphs in deep sylvan bowers;

Canst float with the moonbeams in dew-silvered trees,

And rise on the wings of the morn’s fragrant breeze,

While sunbeams are waking the rapturous lays

Of dew-drops and birds, and yet all ’neath their blaze;

Canst hover o’er ocean when storm it enthrones,

And bear from the foam-crested surges their tones;

When dark are the skies and the thunder-clouds lower,

With the eagle’s bold flight to the mountain’s crest soar;

The streams of the forest to their fountains canst wind,

And caverns resounding in solitude find;

Enshrined in thy spirit their voices canst keep,

Sublimed by thine alchemy subtile and deep,

At thy will from thy spirit their harmonies sweep,

And I ween thou hast soared to the portals of Heaven,

Or some angel a tone to thy praises has given.

O, Jenny, the brightest cynosure below!

The fount in thy bosom must here cease to flow;

Like the sear leaves of autumn which shroud the old years,

Thy harp-strings must perish ’mid wailings and tears;

Thy lovers who bend at thy purity’s shrine,

Enchained by the spells of thy carols divine,

When no temple’s proud arches resound with thy strain,

In the wilds of thy forests shall seek thee in vain;

But when from thy tomb they despairing return,

In lyres immortal thine echoes shall burn.

Alas! that thy music should ever here die,

Should leave the sad earth and ascend to the sky;

Yet when thou art fled to the seraphim throng

Will fancy yet list to thy glorified song,

Will dream that no harp on the heavenly plains

Has music so sweet as are there thy high strains.

Though we never may list while on earth to thy lays,

For the boon of thy being high Heaven we’ll praise;

Where thy strains are ascending must Paradise be—

Humanity’s scale is exalted in thee.

There is a tone in my bosom as yet unexpressed,

And fain would I bid it to ever there rest,

But the woes of the earth for its utterance plead,

Then may it go forth as a merciful deed:—

O, Jenny, while shining so brilliant on high,

Like the Lyrian star on the vault of the sky,

While the peers of the realms bow in homage to thee,

Dost never thy race in their miseries see?

To the charm of thy music we ever would yield,

By thee would be borne to Elysium’s field,

And forgetful that wrong or that wo were on earth,

Forever would list to thine angel-like mirth.

But the heart fraught with sympathies true, must embrace

The lowest as well as the stars of our race—

Round the poor and the wretched in bitterness twine—

On devotion’s wings rise to where pure seraphs shine;—

In our pathway to Heaven we encounter the thorn,

Each brother’s woes feel and the proud tyrant’s scorn—

The way that our holy Redeemer has trod

But leads us through tears to the throne of our God.

I know that thine own gushing spirit is free

As the winds that o’ersweep the high mountains and sea;

Thy genius has burst from all species of chains,

And freedom unbounded swells forth in thy strains;

But while ever exulting on fetterless wing,

Wouldst not the blest boon to each lorn spirit bring?

Thy music, which thrills to the depths of the heart,

Might bid us to deeds of true chivalry start;

Might bid the kind fountain in proud bosoms flow,

To heal the crushed hearts that are writhing in wo.

Both Knowledge and Virtue like angels descend,

The sad thralls of Sin and of Darkness to rend,

Perchance that the tyrant may yield to thy charms,

And avert the dread doom of the Future’s alarms,

Till unwilling vassals no more bend the knee,

But rise at his bidding and ever be free.

And the gold thou hast won by the charm of thy name,

To its splendor might add the philanthropist’s fame,

Till many an oasis from deserts shall spring,

When the arches of Heaven with thy praises shall ring.

STORM-LINES.

———

BY J. BAYARD TAYLOR.

———

When the rains of November are dark on the hills, and the pine-trees incessantly roarTo the sound of the wind-beaten crags, and the floods that in foam through their black channels pour:When the breaker-lined coast stretches dimly afar, through the desolate waste of the gale,And the clang of the sea-gull at nightfall is heard from the deep, like a mariner's wail:When the gray sky drops low, and the forest is bare, and the laborer is housed from the storm,And the world is a blank, save the light of his home through the gust shining redly and warm:—Go thou forth, if the brim of thy heart with its tropical fullness of life overflow—If the sun of thy bliss in the zenith is hung, and no shadow reminds thee of wo!Leave the home of thy love; leave thy labors of fame; in the rain and the darkness go forth,When the cold winds unpausingly wail as they drive from the cheerless expanse of the North.Thou shalt turn from the cup that was mantling before; thou shalt hear the eternal despairOf the hearts that endured and were broken at last, from the hills and the sea and the air!Thou shalt hear how the Earth, the maternal, laments for the children she nurtured with tears—How the forest but deepens its wail and the breakers their roar, with the march of the years!Then the gleam of thy hearth-fire shall dwindle away, sad the lips of thy loved ones be still:And thy soul shall lament in the moan of the storm, sounding wide on the shelterless hill.All the woes of existence shall stand at thy heart, and the sad eyes of myriads implore,In the darkness and storm of their being, the ray, streaming out through thy radiant door.Look again: how that star of thy Paradise dims, through the warm tears, unwittingly shed—Thou art man, and a sorrow so bitterly wrung, never fell on the dust of the Dead!Let the rain of the midnight beat cold on thy cheek, and the proud pulses chill in thy frame,Till the love of thy bosom is grateful and sad, and thou turn'st from the mockery of Fame!Take with humble acceptance the gifts of thy life; bid thy joy brim the fountain of tears;For the soul of the Earth, in endurance and pain, gathers promise of happier years!

When the rains of November are dark on the hills, and the pine-trees incessantly roar

To the sound of the wind-beaten crags, and the floods that in foam through their black channels pour:

When the breaker-lined coast stretches dimly afar, through the desolate waste of the gale,

And the clang of the sea-gull at nightfall is heard from the deep, like a mariner's wail:

When the gray sky drops low, and the forest is bare, and the laborer is housed from the storm,

And the world is a blank, save the light of his home through the gust shining redly and warm:—

Go thou forth, if the brim of thy heart with its tropical fullness of life overflow—

If the sun of thy bliss in the zenith is hung, and no shadow reminds thee of wo!

Leave the home of thy love; leave thy labors of fame; in the rain and the darkness go forth,

When the cold winds unpausingly wail as they drive from the cheerless expanse of the North.

Thou shalt turn from the cup that was mantling before; thou shalt hear the eternal despair

Of the hearts that endured and were broken at last, from the hills and the sea and the air!

Thou shalt hear how the Earth, the maternal, laments for the children she nurtured with tears—

How the forest but deepens its wail and the breakers their roar, with the march of the years!

Then the gleam of thy hearth-fire shall dwindle away, sad the lips of thy loved ones be still:

And thy soul shall lament in the moan of the storm, sounding wide on the shelterless hill.

All the woes of existence shall stand at thy heart, and the sad eyes of myriads implore,

In the darkness and storm of their being, the ray, streaming out through thy radiant door.

Look again: how that star of thy Paradise dims, through the warm tears, unwittingly shed—

Thou art man, and a sorrow so bitterly wrung, never fell on the dust of the Dead!

Let the rain of the midnight beat cold on thy cheek, and the proud pulses chill in thy frame,

Till the love of thy bosom is grateful and sad, and thou turn'st from the mockery of Fame!

Take with humble acceptance the gifts of thy life; bid thy joy brim the fountain of tears;

For the soul of the Earth, in endurance and pain, gathers promise of happier years!

REVIEW OF NEW BOOKS.

The Child of the Sea and Other Poems. By Mrs. S. Anna Lewis, Author of “Records of the Heart,” etc. etc. New York: George P. Putnam.

A large edition of “Records of the Heart” was sold in a few months, and the fair author stepped at once into a very enviable position. “The Child of the Sea,” etc. will add much to her poetical fame. The poem which gives name to the volume, and occupies most of it, is a romantic and passionate narrative, and embodies all the main features of Mrs. Lewis’s thought as well as manner. The story is well conducted and somewhat elaborately handled; the style, or general tone, is nervous, free, dashing—much in the way of Maria del Occidente—but the principal ground for praise is to be found in the great aggregate of quotable passages. The opening lines, for example, are singularly vivid:

Where blooms the myrtle and the olive flingsIts aromatic breath upon the air—Where the sad Bird of Night forever singsMeet anthems for the Children of Despair.

Where blooms the myrtle and the olive flings

Its aromatic breath upon the air—

Where the sad Bird of Night forever sings

Meet anthems for the Children of Despair.

Thethemesof the poem—a few lines farther on—are summed up in words of Byronic pith and vigor:—

——youthful Love,Ill-starred, yet trustful, truthful and sublimeAs ever angels chronicled above—The sorrowings of Beauty in her prime—Virtue’s reward—the punishment of Crime—The dark, inscrutable decrees of Fate—Despair, untold before in prose or rhyme.

——youthful Love,

Ill-starred, yet trustful, truthful and sublime

As ever angels chronicled above—

The sorrowings of Beauty in her prime—

Virtue’s reward—the punishment of Crime—

The dark, inscrutable decrees of Fate—

Despair, untold before in prose or rhyme.

We give a few more instances of what we term “quotable” passages—thoughtful, vivid, pungent or vigorous:

Fresh blows the breeze on Tarick’s burnished bay—The silent sea-mews bend them through the spray—The beauty-freighted barges bound afarTo the soft music of the gay guitar. . . . . .The olive children of the Indian Sea.That rayless realm where Fancy never beams—That Nothingness beyond the Land of Dreams.Folded his arms across his sable vestAs if to keep the heart within his breast.——Violets lifting up their azure eyesLike timid virgins whom Love’s steps surprise.And all is hushed—so still—so silent thereThat one might hear an angel wing the air.——There are times when the sick soulLies calm amid the storms that ’round it roll,Indifferent to Fate or to what havenBy the terrific tempest it is driven.The dahlias, leaning from the golden vase,Peer pensively into her pallid face,While the sweet songster o’er the oaken doorLooks through his grate and warbles “weep no more!”——beauteous in her misery—A jewel sparkling up through the dark seaOf Sorrow.Delirium’s world of fantasy and pain,Where hung the fiery moon and stars of bloodAnd phantom ships rolled on the rolling flood.

Fresh blows the breeze on Tarick’s burnished bay—

The silent sea-mews bend them through the spray—

The beauty-freighted barges bound afar

To the soft music of the gay guitar. . . . . .

The olive children of the Indian Sea.

That rayless realm where Fancy never beams—

That Nothingness beyond the Land of Dreams.

Folded his arms across his sable vest

As if to keep the heart within his breast.

——Violets lifting up their azure eyes

Like timid virgins whom Love’s steps surprise.

And all is hushed—so still—so silent there

That one might hear an angel wing the air.

——There are times when the sick soul

Lies calm amid the storms that ’round it roll,

Indifferent to Fate or to what haven

By the terrific tempest it is driven.

The dahlias, leaning from the golden vase,

Peer pensively into her pallid face,

While the sweet songster o’er the oaken door

Looks through his grate and warbles “weep no more!”

——beauteous in her misery—

A jewel sparkling up through the dark sea

Of Sorrow.

Delirium’s world of fantasy and pain,

Where hung the fiery moon and stars of blood

And phantom ships rolled on the rolling flood.

“Isabelle or The Broken Heart” occupies some 40 pages, and is fully as good as “The Child of the Sea”—although in a very different way. There is less elaboration, perhaps, but not less true polish, and even more imagination.

The “Miscellaneous Poems” are, of course, varied inmerit. Some of them have been public favorites for a long time. “My Study,” especially, has been often quoted and requoted. It is terse and vigorous. From “The Beleagured Heart” we extract a quatrain of very forcible originality:

I hear the mournful moans of joy—Hope, sobbing while she cheers—Like dew descending from the leafThe dropping of Love’s tears.

I hear the mournful moans of joy—

Hope, sobbing while she cheers—

Like dew descending from the leaf

The dropping of Love’s tears.

The volume is most exquisitely printed and bound—one of the most beautiful books of the season.

The History of England, from the Accession of James II. By Thomas Babington Macaulay. New York: Harper & Brothers. Vols. 1 and 2. 8vo.

No person, of whig or tory politics, could in the present age, propose to himself the task of writing the history of England, without feeling the delicacy and responsibility of his undertaking, and the necessity of exercising a different class of powers from those which may have given sparkle and point to his partisan efforts. The importance of the principles involved in the events and characters coming under his view, and their wide applications to contemporary controversies, would be sure to bring down upon the unlucky advocate a storm of moral and immoral indignation. It would seem on the first blush that Macaulay, with all his vast and vivified erudition, was not a writer calculated to experience the full force of a historian’s duties, or to display in the analysis and judgment of events that intellectual conscientiousness which is a rare quality even in powerful minds. His historical essays bear as unmistakable marks of partisanship as ability, and are especially characterized by a merciless severity, which, in the name of justice, too often loses the insight us well as the toleration which come from charity. Sir James Macintosh, toward the commencement of his career, referred to him as “a writer of consummate ability, who has failed in little but in the respect due to the abilities and character of his opponents.” Though as a partisan, Macaulay was a partisan on the right side, on the side of liberty and truth, the unmeasured scorn he poured, hot from his heart, on tyrants and bigots, and the fierce, swift sweep of his generalizations, often made his cooler readers suspicious of his accuracy when most dazzled and delighted by his brilliancy. In the present history a great change is manifest. The petulance, the flippancy, the dogmatism of the essayist, are hardly observable, and in their place we have the solid judgment of the historian. There is a general lowering of the tone in which persons and principles are considered, consequent upon the change in the writer’s position from an antagonist to a judge. The style, while it has no lack of the force, richness, variety, directness and brilliancy, which characterized the diction of the essayist, has likewise a sweetness, gravity and composure which the essayist never displayed. Though the writer’s opinions are radically the same as ever, they are somewhat modified by being seen through a less extravagant expression, and by being restored to their proper relations. In fact, the history presents Macaulay as a wiser and more comprehensive man than his essays, and if we sometimes miss the generous warmth and intensity, and the daring sweep of his earlier compositions, we also miss their declamatory contemptuousness and mental bombast.

The volumes which the Harpers have given to us in so elegant a form, (vulgarized a little by Dr. Webster’s ortho-graphical crotchets,) close with the proceedings of the Convention which gave the crown to William and Mary. A long historical introduction, containing a view of English history previous to the reign of James II., and a view of England, in its manners, customs, literature and people at the time of his accession, occupy the larger portion of the first volume, and are almost unmatched, certainly unexcelled, in historical literature, for the combination of condensed richness of matter with popularity of style. Then follows the narrative of the three years of folly and madness which produced the revolution of 1688, and hurled James II. from his throne. This narrative is detailed with a minuteness which leaves nothing untold necessary to the complete apprehension of the subject in all its bearings, and it evinces on almost every page not only singular felicity in narration, but great power of original and striking observation. Masterly generalization, and sagacity in seizing and luminousness in unfolding the principles of events. The whole history has the interest of a grand dramatic poem, in which the movement of the story and delineation of the characters are managed with consummate skill. The portraits of Charles II., James II., Danby, Rochester, Sunderland, Godolphin, Halifax, Churchill, and especially William of Orange, are altogether superior to any which have previously appeared. Halifax and King William seem to be Macaulay’s favorites, and he has surprised many of his readers by his comparative coolness to Russell, Sydney, and the whig patriots generally.

The history closes with an eloquent passage on the “glorious” Revolution of 1688. It appears to us that the meanness and lowness which Macaulay has developed in the actors in the event, impress the reader with a different notion of it. The whole thing has a jobby air, in which no commanding genius is observable, and no sacrifices seem to have been made. Indeed Macaulay himself, in one of his essays, remarks truly that the only sacrifices made in the Revolution, “was the sacrifice which Churchill made of honor and Anne of natural affection.” That the Revolution, in its results, was one of the most glorious recorded in human annals, there can be little doubt, but it had its birth in such odious treachery, and was conducted by men so deficient in elevation of mind or even common honesty, that its story is little calculated to kindle sympathy, or awaken admiration.

The History of England from the Peace of Utrecht to the Peace of Paris. By Lord Mahon. Edited by Henry Reed, Professor of English Literature in the University of Pennsylvania. New York: D. Appleton & Co. 2 vols. 8vo.

The author of this history is all English nobleman of large historical acquirements, who has managed to produce two or three valuable works demanding great study and research, without interfering with his duties as a member of Parliament, though, doubtless with some interference with his pleasures as a member of the English aristocracy. The present work is valuable for its accuracy, and interesting from its giving a connected view of the history of England during a period but little known except by the empty abstracts of stupid compilers, or the brilliant but prejudiced letters and memoirs of contemporary writers and statesmen. It comprehends the administrations of Harley and Bolingbroke, of Stanhope, Walpole, Carteret, Newcastle and Chatham, thus including the latter years of the reign of Queen Anne and the reigns of George I. and II. The period covers a wide field of characters and events, and Lord Mahon has been especially successful in unraveling the threads of the foreign policy of England, and indicating the difficulties experienced by her statesmen in sustaining the House of Hanover on the throne. In a narrative point of view the best portions of the history are those relating to the rebellions of 1715 and 1745. It is almost needless to say that Professor Reedhas added much to the value and interest of the work by his elucidative notes.

But the richness of Lord Mahon’s materials and the interest of his subject cannot conceal the fact that he lacks both the heart and the brain of an able historian, and that he is essentially a common-place man. The reflections he appends to some of his narratives are commonly such obvious truisms, or such poor apologies for reason, that the reader is made painfully aware of his being in the company of a mediocre gentleman, who, while he always means well, never means much. Lord Mahon is deficient equally in historical science and historical imagination, and his work equally barren of profound principles and vivid pictures. A moderate tory, he holds the hearsays of his creed with a lazy acquiescence, without sufficient passion to be a bigot, and without sufficient logic to be a sophist. When he is tempted into historical parallels, or disquisitions on the changes of parties, as in that passage where he essays to prove that a modern whig is synonymous with a tory of Queen Anne’s day, he adopts the argumentation of Fluellen rather than Chillingworth—shows that “there is a mountain in Wales and a mountain in Macedon,” and leaves the reader to mourn over the misdirection of the human faculties. In his estimate of literature he is still worse. The disquisition on the literature of Queen Anne’s time, in the present history, is a medley of mingled commonplace, which has been worn to rags, and critical nonsense, which has been long exploded. His history, therefore, must be considered simply as a useful narrative of important events, and carefully distinguished from those of Guizot and Thierrey, of Hallam and Macaulay, of Prescott and Bancroft.

Leaves from Margaret Smith’s Journal in the Province of Massachusetts Bay, 1678-9. Boston: Ticknor, Reed & Fields. 1 vol. 16mo.

This beautifully printed volume sustains both the reputation of its publishers for printing handsome books, and its reputed author for writing good ones. It is generally attributed to Whittier, and it certainly displays throughout the shrewdness with which that poet observes, and the facility with which he idealizes events. Here is a volume bringing up to the eye with the vividness of reality the scenes and characters of a past age, and making us as familiar with them as if we had ridden by the side of Margaret in her journey from Boston to Newbury, and yet through the whole book runs a vein of pure poetry, lending a consecrating light to scenes which might possess but little interest if actually observed. The quaint spelling undoubtedly adds to the illusion of its antiquity, but what makes it really seem old is its primitive sentiment and bold delineations. Margaret herself is a most bewitching piece of saintliness, with the sweetness and purity of one of Jeremy Taylor’s sermons, and as full of genial humanity as of beautiful devotion. Placed as she is amid the collision of opposite fanaticisms, the austere fanaticism of the Puritan and the vehement fanaticism of the Quaker, she shines both by her own virtues and by contrast with the harsh qualities by which she is surrounded. The book provokes a comparison with the Diary of Lady Willoughby, and that comparison it will more than stand, being superior to that charming volume in the range of its persons and events, and equal to it in the conception of the leading character. The author has shown especial art in modifying every thing, by the supposed medium of mind through which it passes—the heroine telling the whole story in her own words—and at the same time preserving every thing in its essential life. This is a difficult and delicate process of representation, but Whittier has performed it.

Democracy in France. By Monsieur Guizot, Late Prime Minister. New York: D. Appleton & Co.

This little volume is well worthy the reputation of one of the greatest historians, philosophers and statesmen at the age—in other words, of the reputation of Guizot. It is marked by preeminent ability in statement, analysis, argumentation and composition, and we doubt not will exert some considerable influence on the politics of France. In his preface the author avers that nothing in the volume bears the impress of his personal situation, and he adds, “While events of such magnitude are passing before his eyes, a man who did not forget himself would deserve to be forever forgotten.” The book justifies the author’s assertion. It is simply an examination of things without regard to persons, and is as philosophic in its tone as in its method. The chapters on The Social Republic and The Elements of Society are masterpieces of analysis and statement, and well deserve the attentive study of all who think or prattle on social science. It seems to us that the present volume is sufficient to convince all candid minds, that whatever may be the faults and errors of Guizot as a statesman, he has no equal among the men at present dominant in France. Since his fall that country has been governed, or misgoverned, by soldiers and sentimentalists, with a pistol in one hand and the Rights of Man in the other, and is a standing monument of the madness of trusting the state to men of “second rate ability and first rate incapacity.” The Red Republicans have principles; M. Guizot has principles; the legitimists have principles; but the present dynasty has the peculiar character of being, in an intellectual sense, the most thoroughly unprincipled government that French ingenuity could have formed.

Oregon and California. By J. Quinn Thornton. New York: Harper & Brothers, 1849.

A pleasant book, well written, and containing much information just now, peculiarly valuable in relation to Oregon and California. Many strange phases of life in the wilderness and prairie, are described by one who knows its peculiar hardships and pleasures. The terrible sufferings, the awful stories told of the early emigrants, are faithfully given, and, if official accounts be true, are scarcely exaggerated. A valuable appendix on the gold country is added, undoubtedly to be relied on. The book is well illustrated in wood.

The Parterre, a Collection of Flowers Culled by the Wayside. By D. W. Belisle. Philadelphia: J. B. Lippencott & Co., 1849.

A pretty looking volume, very creditable to the publishers in a typographical point of view, and containing a number of poems of various lengths, on a variety of subjects. The longest, Wallenpaupack, is an attempt, and a very creditable one also, to commemorate an incident of the history of the North American Indian, a source of poetical subjects too much neglected. The book is well worth attention. It may not be uninteresting to state that the type has all been set up by the author.

Roland Cashel. By Charles Lever. Illustrated by Phiz. New York: Harper & Brothers.

This is probably the best novel of one of the most popular novelists of the day. Lever has not much solidity of mind, and accordingly never produces any masterpieces of characterization or passion, but he has a quicksilver spirit of frolic and drollery, and an intensity of mirthful feeling which have made some critics place him on a level with Dickens. The present volume will more than sustain the reputation which his former frolicksome audacities have attained.

EDITOR’S TABLE.

“GRAHAM” TO “JEREMY SHORT.”

My Dear Jeremy,—In my last I promised you a reminding hint, a sketch reflective and suggestive of mining operations, as an offset to the brilliant visions of “Gold Placers,” which haunt the mind, sleeping and waking, of Uncle Sam’s children. While multitudes are making haste to grow rich, by going around the Horn, and at the terminus of their long voyage will find themselves coming out of the little end of it, you and I may amuse ourselves over a subject somewhat kindred—a retrospective folly—feeling the while a good deal like the boy on getting rid of the jumping tooth-ache—“aheapbetter” are we, “now it is over.”

Copper!You have heard of it before, I believe? and may have about you a memorandum of a few thousands, entered on the credit side, not available now at your bankers. It was a very happy delusion, was it not? I’ll warrant me that you had already planned your cottage orné and had the walks laid out, and the shrubbery planted quite tastefully and imaginatively picturesque. Several castles, with steeples rather airy, of my own, were toppled down, and elegantly bronzed as they were, are quite useless now for purposes of reproduction, so that we may say, that we have had some of the advantages of wealth without a present care in disposing of it. The servant girl who wished for riches “that she might ride in her carriage and feel like missus,” had the delights of anticipation only, poor soul! while ours are embodied in the delicious reflection of having passed that “missus” on the road, with a pair of fast trotters—taking the air with quite an air, at the rate of “two forty.”

“Come easy, go fast,” was the remark of an old German Uncle, who, having made a fortune by hard knocks at the anvil, looked with a quiet smile at these thousands in perspective. In regard to thehorses, the old gentleman was right—but as themoneynever came, I think his premises were altogether wrong. One thing is certain, real estate rose very rapidly in our vicinity at that time, and as several lots went off at spanking prices, to be kept out of our clutches, we may be said to have been benefactors to the sellers and conveyancers. So thatcopper—the vilest of metal—may, in some crucibles, be transformed into gold. But not to anticipate.

Grubemouthad been upon the mountain-side, which overlooks the delightful village of Fleeceington, for a month or more, making careful chiselings from rocks, and excavations at their sides.Uptosnuffcarried his pick-axe and his basket. The “collection” gradually swelled upon their hands, until it became quite formidable; and the “choice specimens,” were without number, rich, and without reason,rare.Drawitwell, the host of “The Hawk and Buzzard,” had his eye upon their movements, and always made it a point to take a peep at their basket when they descended in the evening. He was an open-eyed sort of an old lark, who had had his own way in the village at election times and at trainings, by virtue of a colonelcy and aidship to the governor—a cheap sort of payment for service rendered—and he felt as if nothing of importance ought to transpire in the place, unless he had a hand in it. Drawitwell did not like the air of mystery with which his lodgers slipped the covered basket up stairs, after they had performed their ablutions; nor the roaring noise made overhead, as the “specimens” were poured into the two great chests, previously prepared; and he was just the man to get at the bottom of a mare’s nest. So, by virtue of appliances best known to himself, he contrived to get a look at the collected specimens, and made up his mind at once that the thing was too slily managed by half, and that if there was wealth in the rocks he would have a finger in the transaction. “He would at any rate.”

Crispin, the village cobbler, had thrownhiseyes from his lapstone, across the creek, and up the hill-side, to take note of the motions of “the wandering stone-crackers,” as he called them, and his brain was in a pother.

The blacksmith had sharpened their pick more than once, which had put on edge his curiosity, and had “contrived to pick their brains, while they pecked the rocks,” as he jocosely remarked, andhehad smelt metal in their movements.

Over their evening ale, at the tavern, the probabilities and possibilities of gold or silver being found in the mountain, were discussed with various degrees of profundity, and the certainty that something of the kind was there, was most sagely resolved on. Time, in whose crucible all doubts are solved, soon confirmed their sagacity by a “copper button” presented to the landlord with the compliments of Uptosnuff, with hints, but not positive injunctions as to secrecy. He knew his man.

“What do you think of that?” asked Drawitwell, of his cronies the same evening, with an air of authority, holding up the copper button. “Whatdoyou think of that, my lads?”

“Hellow!” exclaimed the bewildered cobbler, “landlord, why—why isthat goold?”

“Gold, you fool! No, it’snotgold—but it’s a precious sight more valuable—because there is a great deal more of it used.”

“Why what on earth is it, then?” asked the blacksmith, in amazement.

“It’sCopper! my lads!Copper!!”

“Copper!!”

“Yes, I reckon it is!—and the genuine metal, too! And the mountain is as full of it as an egg is of meat! Only melt down one of the rocks up there, and you’ll see how it will fly out!”

To have stopped the spread of such information as this, would have surpassed the ingenuity of our clerical friend, who was opposed to the Magnetic Telegraph, as “a device of the devil.” There was a California excitement in a village, with California itself in their own mountain.Hewould have been a lucky traveler, who could have had his horse shod for a guinea, or a bridle-rein mended for double the amount.

“You see, my lads!” says Drawitwell, haranguing the crowd, “they are going to do the fair thing by us, they have bought the land, and are getting their act of incorporation ready, and we are all to have shares in it at a reasonable rate—and I reckon I’ll have afew, or money must be scarce in Fleeceington. There’ll be high times at the “Hawk and Buzzard”,now, I should say, when every man in this prosperous village can be an owner, for a small sum, in one of the richest mines on the face of the earth. You see it’s going to be most unconscionable high, too—it’s now twenty-two cents a pound—for the governmentis advertising for it in the newspapers—no doubt to make bullets with to match the infernal poisonous Mexicans. Gad, we’ll give the rascals a taste of their own physic,now, I reckon! And then don’t they make water-pipes with it now, and sheetings. And don’t they cover houses with it, and ships; and I guess the time is not far off when government will have her mint on this spot—and what’s to hinder us,thenfrom spending our own coppers, bran new, ha! ha! If any body here has got a farm for sale, I’m his man!”

As for buying farms, the thing was perfectly absurd now, and Drawitwell should have known it; for who could tell that there was not a copper-mine under every one of them. It was not to be supposed either that the good people of Fleeceington could keep the knowledge of such extraordinary wealth all to themselves, and our usually quiet city was all agog, with the wondrous stories of the extent and richness of the mines; and to confirm its truth, Grubemout and Uptosnuff were here with the charter, and the script elegantly engraved, and any number of specimens, and copper-buttons confirmatory.

In a day or two a few shares were in the market at “a slight advance on the original cost.” Capitalists had been up who thought they “knew a thing or two”—and gudgeons began to nibble, the knowing ones among the number. The market advanced. One, two, three, four hundred per cent. was quickly achieved as competitors increased; and considering that the first cost was perhaps a dollar an acre, for an unwooded, untillable, rocky hillside, curved up and set down at a dollar per square foot as “original cost,” the profit was tempting—the market active—ditto the original holders. There was a fierce avidity for a stock which advanced at such rapid strides, and the reckless became crazy, the cautious reckless and visionary. “The Board”—knowing dogs—looked on for a while doubtfully, but in amazement. The “Outsiders” indulged in ecstasies and fanciful millions. Thousands were added up upon stock-books, as if they were “trifles light as air”—and they were. Merchants cut the shop—lawyers the red tape and sheep-skin—editors told the messenger for copy to “go to the devil”—and all became “gentlemen on ’change.” Healths were drunk “to the United Copper-Heads”—and champagne and Havanas “suffered some.” Fun and puns flashed fast and furious—and all this the while the great bubble rose up, expanding and beautifying as it ascended.

It was not to be expected that a single mountain should contain all this good luck exclusively, and in various quarters envious copper-rocks poked their noses out, quite seductively to anxious companies, who formed upon the spot. One gigantic intellect proposed the formation of a company to shovel the sand off of the whole State of New Jersey, so as to get at the substratum, at once and emphatically. Copper became substantially thegreatbusiness of life—theonlybusiness of the board—theboardbeing in fact rather a small affair whilecopperabounded.

Sharp occupiedhistime in buying up superfluous real estate, which seemed to have been infected by copper, and showed a disposition torise—and he was afraid it might go up and never come down again. The conveyancers assured him that he ought to take it—like a sportsman—on the wing, right and left. He did, and clapped a heavy mortgage on it to keep it steady.

That disturbed the figures on Flat’s memorandum—for he hoped to have bought and paid for it with his expected profit on copper, and to have staggered somebody else’s property with a mortgage from the surplus. It was provoking.

Jones and Wilkins resolved to “take a shy at the copper anyway, while it was going;” but the stock of all the companies seemed shy of them. They “bid ten dollars through a broker”—it was twelve. “Bid twelve”—it was fourteen. Wilkins had had enough of it. He believed it was “only a bubble blown up to catch the eyes of fools. He was done with it.” But Jones was down in the morning, as merry as a lark, and as early. He “knew some of the outsiders, and thought he would catch some of them before the morning was over.” He did—and went home to dinner, having made “a fortunate hit.”

“Five hundred shares,” said he, “at fifteen, and the last sale ‘after board,’ nineteen and a half! Four dollars and fifty cents per share. Five aught isnaught; five fives are twenty-five, five fours are twenty, and two are twenty-two. Twenty-two hundred and fifty dollars—that will do for one day,Ishould say. Wilkins would like me to givehimhalf, as we were to have gone in together yesterday, but I wonder what Wilkins ever did for me, that I should givehimeleven hundred and twenty-five dollars! Notquiteso green!”

The next morning Grubemout brought down some specimens, which “he thought” would yield forty per cent.if they were assayed, and thought that they ought to make an assessment of a dollar a share, so as to put on more hands and drive out the ore. Jones said that “that was right enough.”

The assessment was called in, at which the stock hesitated for a day or two—made a start and went on—but a second installment being urged, it faltered a little, and then stopped. At the third it “declineda shade,” at which the “bears” gave a shake and a growl.

But Grubemout had—in the nick of time—“just received a letter from the mines of the most important nature, which it would not do to show in ‘the street,’ or the stock would be balooning it—Uptosnuff hadjust made a cross-cut.”

“The deuce he has!” exclaimed Jones, rather nervously. “What isthat?”

“A cross-cut, you see,” says Grubemout, “is nothing more than ‘a shaft’ run at right angles past the old one we have been working. He struck some glorious ‘deposites,’ and—”

“Why I thought you always said there wasa vein, Grubemout? These deposites are confoundedly leaky and treacherous affairs.”

“And so thereisa vein, my boy, and we are just getting into it; deposites are always the first thing we look for in copper mining. As long as we have them we get on swimmingly; but you are so confoundedly skittish! I was just going to tell you, that in making the ‘cross-cut,’ Uptosnuff has struck ‘the master vein!’ and found an old ‘drift’ in the mountain, which you will see after a while, is important. In it he found old hatchets, and hammers, and images in copper, supposed to have been the rude efforts at mining and smelting by the Indians long ago—say before the Dutch had taken Holland, or achieved the renowned name of Knickerbockers, and had gone home copper-fastened.”

Information so desirable as this would work its way out somehow, and gentlemen would now bet you a trifle—say champagne and cigars—that a dividend of twenty-five per cent. would be declared on the stock the first year; or wouldgiveyou a hundred dollars for agreeing to pay the annual dividend on a hundred shares.

Jones is “satisfiednow,” and forthwith buys five hundred shares more, as do other Joneses, and Browns, and Greens. Outsiders became as plenty as gooseberries, and as verdant; and it would seem, from the number of shares reportedatthe Board, and “after,” that certificates had quadrupled, and nevercouldmultiply fast enough to supply the demand. Indeed, as one old gentleman was heard toend a prolonged whistle, by exclaiming—“Gas!” the market became so inflated that the Joneses, Browns, and Greens, declined the attempt ofcorneringthe stock, in despair.

“The company,” called for an additional installment at once. “Why, what the deuce,” asks Jones, “does the company want withmoreinstallments?Haven’t they got copper enough!”

“Copperore, my dear fellow,” responded Grubemout. “Yes,lotsof it. But Uptosnuff wasn’t brought up in a Cornish mine for nothing. The furnaces at Baltimore and Boston want it for half-price, but as they are nearlyout, we intend to make themsmoke, ha! ha! But we must go to the expense of an “adate” in the meanwhile.”

“Why, what’s the use ofthat—what good will that do?” asks Jones. “Whatisanadate, anyway?”

Poor Jones had a good deal yet to learn about copper-mining, and felt naturally alarmed at these ominous terms. The “cross-cut” was the beginning of puzzlers. He had yet to see—I may as well say he ultimately did see, “the drift,” to help along “the pumps,” as well as the adate with installments, and to become familiar with a variety of mining lore, which assists knowledge in its acquisition, by obligingly allowing us to pay for it. But I believe he neverdidunderstand “what they wanted with so many work-shops—hethought they wereminers!”

“Anadate, Jones, is only a drain to relieve the mine when it is overcharged with water.”

“Oh! is that all!”

But this calling in of installments seems to be a sort of patent condenser in the stock market, and shows with how much force a given quantity of air can be squeezed into a given compass.

Grubemout was as active as a bee at sunrise, and offered his advice gratuitously—but “confidentially”—to any number of anxiousinquirers—but some ofthemhaving a copper-mine of their own, by the attractive andtakingname of “Penny-wise Company,” and others having taken a snap with the “Alligator Mountain Company,” and not liking the bite they received, shook their heads at Fleeceington and looked knowing—the “New Jersey” chaps were quite sprightly, for as theirtitlecovered the whole State, they had a fair chance ofrealizingsomething when the “Mammoth Shoveling Company” got to work, and lifted the crust off.

Grubemout assured them—“on his honor”—that “the Company did not intend to sell an ounce of its ore to the furnaces. They intended to have ‘a crushing machine’ of their own erected at once, and proceed in a style that would soon settle the whole business.”

Jones was “ready for any number of crushers or mashers, grinders or pounders. Head up the creek—dam it! Put up the water-works and the mill-wheel, and give it to theblastedfurnaces! Carry the war into Africa!” said he.

The installment to carry on the adate was paid, though it depressed the stock, but Jones could not see how having paid the company five thousand dollars in installments should depresshisstock in the market. “Hang it!” said he, “the company is that much richer in property and excavations, and don’t I belong to the company—haven’t I a thousand shares? It’s only paying money out of one pocket, and putting into the other. Wilkins may laugh, but he’s a fool! That’s a capital idea about the furnace. You’re a boy, Uptosnuff—youare?”

The installment forcrushingpurposes was soon called in also, and paid, though the stock looked sickly, and trembled as if it had the ague, or had passed through a crushing process on its own hook. It was just composing itself when Uptosnuff discovered that it was of the highest importance to the company to have a small engine and an iron pump erected at the mines at once,as the richest ore is always found below water level!

Jones—the active, energetic Jones—“had no doubt of it at all. The Cornish miners assured him, when he was up, that as soon as they got below water level, they would come to something that couldn’t be trifled with. If Wilkins wasn’t a fool he would go in soon, before it gets out.”

Uptosnuff, too, had had a quantity of the late ore assayed, and Professor Stuffemwell, Geologist to Her Majesty, thought it woulddobravely. If ore that yielded fifty per cent. would not, he would like to know how her majesty’s subjects got rich, after paying the miners, on mines that yield but fifteen per cent.

Copper buttons now replenished the pockets of dealers, and the stock made several violent gasps and starts for a desirable existence. But it was consumptive—evidently going into a rapid decline. The crushing process and the iron pump having depressed its spirits, and exhausted still further its vital energy.

Grubemout thought that if the buttons were pressed intobars, and shown upon Change it might be encouraging, and mitigate the violence of the disease; but some wag of a broker suggested that it was “aBARsinister;” which remark sinister ruffled the backs of thebars, caused the bulls to toss their horns unpleasantly, and shook still further the liveliness of the stock, which drooped visibly under the imputation.

EvenJones—the ardent, trustful Jones—got earnestly anxious about the state of the patient, and “suggested a consultation.”

Brownwas full of good intentions, but “pleaded debility of the pocket, which, under heavy depletion, was rather low.”

Greenwas a little vivacious, and “suggested a newcross-cut.”

Grubemoutwas pleased with the idea, and hinted at “a new installment.”

Uptosnuffhad “missed the stage, and was unable to get down to the meeting.”

Wilkins, in answer to a pressing invitation to “come in,” was “busy selling goods.”

Sharpwould not attend—“he had never had any thing to do with the rascally copper, and found his real estate bad enough just now.”

Flat“had enough of copper stock—it was not very heavy, to be sure, having rather a tendency to dissolve into air, its original element, but he was satisfied.”

The Stockgrew feebler after consultation, as patients are apt to, in critical cases, from want of remedy.

The Bullslooked surly, as if they had been disappointed in pasture.

The Bearswere as frisky as it is possible to be on a frosty morning, and were so much in their own element, that you looked involuntarily around for floating icebergs—and copper in this temperature of the atmosphere sunk into a torpor.

On Change, in this changing world of ours, copper looked blue.

The Outsidershad rubbed out their pencil-marks on stock memorandums, and dissipating the written evidence of thousands that had vanished into air, they themselves vanished. It was needless to say any thing tothemabout copper, they “never had any thing to do with it, beyond a hundred shares or so, which they sold out before the bubble looked like bursting.” Stockdom was desolate, save that a few of the bears showed their teeth, and grinned as furiously as if they had just arrived fresh from the Polar regions, and had brought any quantity of wet blankets with them. Yet they looked as if they wouldrather than not that any dealer in copper should take hold of them. The bulls were more plentiful—looked savage but knowing, but showed no disposition to dash at imaginary enemies in scarlet, having rather a taste left for their friends, the Browns and the Greens, who were urgently entreated to “comein again, and help sustain the market.”

The case was desperate, and desperate remedies were resolved on. It was deemed advisable to “askthe opinionof the directors!”

The directors “haveno opinion of the stock! They neverhad,” of their own. They trusted to Grubemout, to Uptosnuff, to the Cornish miners. Their geological and mineralogical education, had been shockingly neglected in their youth, and they have verified the fact, by having on their hands, a thousand shares apiece at high prices, by having assisted to sustain the market in the various stages of the experiment. But “theywouldlike to know who were the ‘original’ stockholders of the company who did them the honor to elect them.”

Grubemout “thought it of the highest importance that theyshouldknow, and as the original book of minutes was up at the mines and as he was going up by the next stage, would write and send them.”

It would be, perhaps, as well to give his letter:

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